


Nothing But Mammals

by silverfoxflower



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Relationships, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Kink, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snowed In, Werewolf Sex, Werewolf Turning, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: "You've started your mating cycle," Dion said, resting his hip against the wall and bending a knee to hide his inappropriate erection. He was proud of how steady his voice sounded. "I'm guessing that when you said you've been distracted lately, you actually meantinsanely aroused. How long has it been since you've last … climaxed?"Robuche looked shocked, then chagrined as the truth sunk in. "24… 25 days.""Nearly a month?" Dion gaped. "Why didn't you come to me sooner?""That better not have been one of your puns," Robuche scowled.
Relationships: Late Night Veterinarian/Werewolf (Original Work), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79
Collections: Holiday Horror 2020





	Nothing But Mammals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aunt_zelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy your fic aunt_zelda! I tried my best to add a lot things that you like and nothing that you didn't. This started as a straight PWP but then it turned into 7K words of stupid moron angst so please ..... enjoy what you can. 
> 
> (by the way, "Late Night Veterinarian" is not a suggested tag but "Late Night Snack" is, so take that for what you will)
> 
> beta'd by the amazing [cephalopodvictorious](https://cephalopodvictorious.tumblr.com/)

Dion tried not to make a habit of rolling into his night shift hung over, but small towns had few other options for spending a lonely Friday night, especially near the winter holidays, when the bright, tinny Christmas music blasting from every corner made him want to claw out his eyes. 

With a dark grimace, Dion spit his toothpaste in the examining room sink and stuck the toothbrush back in his mouth.

“You’re a mess,” a dry female voice said, and Dion turned to see Wendy, the receptionist, holding two cups of coffee. 

“I am,” Dion mumbled mournfully around his toothbrush, grabbing at the coffee. “Please take pity on this mournful wretch.” 

Wendy snorted, her regular business casual goth wear bundled under a thick winter jacket, a pair of cat’s-eye sunglasses perched on her nose though she was indoors, and the sun had long since set. Under her perky knit cap, something slithered. “You know, we _do_ have a bathroom,” she said, when Dion gratefully popped the top off the cardboard cup and took a long, grateful whiff of the contents. If he had a tail, it would be shuddering with pleasure. 

Energized by the promise of coffee, Dion hurried through his ablutions, splashing water on his face before pulling his dark curls into a short ponytail. 

“Look at you,” Wendy said when Dion slid his arms through his official-looking, though slightly rumpled labcoat. “A fine, upstanding medical professional at last.” 

“Please,” Dion said, half-coherent and almost caffeinated. “You’re too young for me, Wendy.” 

“First of all, ew.” Wendy said dryly. “Second of all, I’m 349.” She pulled off her jacket and cap as they walked to the front of the clinic, the snakes in her hair hissing drowsily, coiled in shivering, tight springs. Wendy reached up to pet one, running her finger absent-mindedly over its small head as, under her sunglasses, her eyes flicked over the notes left by the morning receptionist. 

While during the day, Safe Haven operated as a standard veterinarian’s office, complete with a pervasive bleach-urine smell and posters of sad-looking puppies confusingly begging their owners to spay and neuter their pets, at night, it became something different altogether. A place of healing for those living at the boundaries of humanity. Sometimes, well beyond it. 

“You heard what I said,” Dion said, wincing as he scalded his tongue, “Under 350 is a no-go for me. I like my women with at least ten generations under their belt.” 

“And I’m sure they’d feel just as happy to have you," Wendy slid behind the receptionist's counter, throwing her coat over the back of her chair. "You're lucky I even made the trek out here tonight. Did you hear about the huge snowstorm coming later? Half the patients today have already cancelled, and even more are gonna be no-shows, I bet. The new tech already called out."

“And here I thought Garret was just being a lazy piece of shit per usual,” Dion said dryly. He took the board that Wendy handed him, flipping through it as he leaned a hip against the receptionist’s counter. His first appointment concerned the Durachanteau child, who had eaten some garlic at school and been throwing up blood all day. Then two standard check-ups - one for a hippogriff kitten requiring vaccinations, the other a satyr requesting an STD panel - and someone called T. Mothman complaining of lamp burns.

When Dion got to the bottom of the list, he rolled his eyes. "Robuche again? _Really_? He just came in last month!" If there was a venn diagram of patients he hated seeing and patients who saw him with distressing regularity, Augustine Robuche would be the one and only name in the overlapping area.

Uptight and anal retentive, Robuche was every stereotype of an executive accountant, down to the mirror-shine on his wing-tip shoes. They had dated for a hot minute a long time ago, though dating might be too charitable a word to describe approximately one-and-a-half drunken sexual encounters followed by the chilliest ghosting that Dion had ever received, including by an actual ghost.

The man was a waste of good looks, Dion thought darkly, especially in this shithole town, where decent sexual partners were at a premium. But whatever demonic entity had put them in each other’s lives was surely rubbing their hands gleefully now. Since Robuche had gotten himself turned into a werewolf, Dion was seeing far more of him than he cared to ... in a professional capacity. 

Wendy shrugged one shoulder, unpacking her Tupperware dinner of frozen baby mice, her snakes writhing happily in anticipation. "Someone needs to tell that guy that blood belongs _inside_ the body. I’m starting to think that he’s picking these fights just to see you."

Dion snorted loudly. "Push back what you can,” he called turning on his heel and striding away. “If you need me, I'll be popping cat tranquilizers like baby aspirin."

\--

It started snowing halfway through the night, large, fat flakes that swirled dizzyingly through the darkness of the night and piled up at the corners of the windows, giving a strangely cozy feeling to the fluorescent-lit clinic. 

"Apply the cream every 3 hours, or if your hands start to itch at any time," Dion said, as he escorted Mr. Mothman to the waiting room. "And in the future, I _strongly_ suggest switching to LEDs."

Under his wool peacoat, the hulking form of Mr. Mothman shrugged sheepishly.

Wendy put aside her phone to book Mr. Mothman for his follow-up visit, and Dion saw that she had been swiping through Tinder.

"I thought you'd given up on men," he said dryly, leaning his elbows over her counter. 

"Men who?" Wendy said airily, "I'm ordering takeout." She wriggled her fingers at Mr. Mothman, "you're all good, honey. See you for your follow-up in 2 weeks."

Dion glanced at the empty waiting room, then out the window. Robuche rarely made appointments, but when he did, he was _never_ late. The man was the type of anal to arrive fifteen minutes early, and glare at everyone like _he_ was the one being inconvenienced. Dion turned to Wendy, tapping his knuckles on her counter. "You should get out of here before it really starts coming down. I don’t want that junker of yours breaking down in the middle of a blizzard.” 

“Aw,” Wendy said dryly, “and leave you all alone with the Big Bad Robuche? What if he comes for your throat?” 

“More likely than you think,” Dion muttered, as Wendy stood and began pulling on her jacket, her snakes wriggling sulkily in anticipation of going back out in the cold. 

“You gonna be okay, boss?” Wendy asked, a strand of real concern touching her voice as she reached for the door. “You might get stuck here, you know.” 

Dion shrugged. “Me and that cot in the back room are well-acquainted.” At Wendy’s raised eyebrows, he amended. “If Robuche doesn’t show his ugly mug in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll be right behind you.” 

That seemed to satisfy her, and Wendy disappeared into the night, her snakes cuddling tightly under her cap. 

He’d told Wendy fifteen minutes, but Dion ended up waiting a full half-hour before calling Robuche, feeling a bit strange looking up his number from his medical chart even though it was a perfectly legitimate use of the information. 

Once, Dion had Robuche’s name saved in his phone as _Ser Stick Up His Arse_. He had, Dion remembered with resentful fondness, quite a nice ass. 

The call started ringing. He frowned, pulling the phone away from his ear when he heard an answering, tinny tone come from just outside the quiet office. Striding quickly to the door, Dion opened it wide to see the body of a man crumpled in the snow on the clinic steps. 

“What the- … _shit_ ,” Dion grunted, bending immediately to flip him over. It was Robuche, his crisp, expensive suit rumpled and stained with blood, his pale hair plastered to his face. He was frighteningly cold to the touch, and his breathing was shallow. Dion continued muttering epithets as he carried Robuche into the warmth, kicking the door closed behind him. 

Robuche’s eyes fluttered open, and he mumbled something against Dion’s chest. 

“How long were you lying out there?” Dion demanded, lowering Robuche onto the waiting room couch and moving to strip off his wet clothing. “You couldn’t have at least changed? Given yourself some fur to work with?” 

Robuche snorted, a bit of animation returning to his face as he reached for the buttons on his shirt, his fingers trembling too violently to be of much help. Dion roughly brushed his hands away and opened the shirt himself, earning a glare when a mother-of-pearl button popped off and spun across the floor. 

“As … usual … your bedside manner ... leaves something to be desired,” Robuche said weakly. 

“Serves you right if your last words are used to berate the help,” Dion snapped, standing when most of Robuche’s lean, pale body had been exposed and his clothes were in a puddle on the floor. He walked to the back room for a stack of towels, grabbing some bandages and antiseptic for good measure. He had seen a smatter of bruises and shallow cuts on Robuche’s body, but it seemed, thankfully, that most of the blood on his clothes had not come from him. 

Then why had he collapsed outside?

When Dion returned to the couches, Robuche made a quick grab for the towels, seemingly more for the sake of his modesty than proper warmth, even though his nudity wasn't anything Dion hadn’t seen before.

“What happened?” Dion asked, his voice low as he watched Robuche dry off his hair. 

“The usual, “ Robuche hissed, drawing the towel around his shoulders. “Territorial bastards.” 

That meant that there was another werewolf probably much worse for wear somewhere out there. Dion hoped that they wouldn’t find this place, since he would be morally obligated to give them treatment as well, and under no scenario would all three of them survive the night. 

Dion tsked through his teeth, pulling away the towel to bandage Robuche’s shoulder with crisp efficiency. “Let me guess … they ambushed you.” 

Robuche coughed, his body shaking. “Just bad luck ... but I guess I was coming here anyway ...” 

It was on the tip of Dion’s tongue to tell Robuche that none of this would have happened if he just picked a pack to run with, but Robuche had never listened to Dion’s lectures the dozen other times he’d stumbled into the clinic, wild-eyed and bleeding, and there was no reason to believe that he would now.

Dion had never gotten the full story of Augustine’s turning, but there was no question that he made a strange choice for a werewolf - his exacting manner and expensive taste in clothing extremely out-of-place among the other town weres, whose packs more resembled wannabe biker gangs who snorted powdered wolfsbane instead of methamphetamines, but also sometimes methamphetamines. 

… now that he thought of it, Dion could understand why Robuche wasn’t interested in pledging his allegiance to any of them, but his lone wolf status made him a target. For recruitment, for perceived slights, or just to show dominance over someone in their territory. It was a rare month that Robuche didn’t get jumped. 

To his credit, and despite his looks, Robuche could usually hold his own.

“That’s right, you said that you had a fever,” Dion said, pressing the back of his hand against Robuche’s forehead, a move that was immediate and embarrassing when Robuche flicked his eyes at the thermometer in Dion's pocket. “When did your symptoms start?” Dion asked, telling himself that the flutter of worry in his stomach was purely professional concern. 

“Three days ago … I thought it was the flu. I thought … I could just tough it out,” Robuche shuddered, clutching his arms, and Dion stood to fetch him a cup of water from the cooler behind Wendy’s desk. As an afterthought, he started the coffee maker. It looked like it was going to be a long night. 

“Well you’re lucky I was still here,” Dion said, allowing Robuche to take a gulp of water before pressing the thermometer against the shell of his ear. Robuche’s ear was blush-red. His entire face was flushed, the pink creeping down his neck and across the fine lines of his collarbone. After being taken inside, Robuche was warming up fast, his wolfish metabolism shooting past a normal body temperature, making his skin feel hot to the touch. Dion frowned, “are you coughing? Nausea? Trouble breathing?” 

“... no, none of that,” Robuche shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at Dion's eyes. When he spoke, it was with a blunt, lofty aspect, broken only the slightest of tremors. "Just the fever. I've also had … difficulty concentrating lately."

Glancing at the thermometer, Dion frowned, smacking the instrument against his palm. “This is … not possible. Must be fucking broken.” 

“Does that usually work for you?” Robuche asked, a small laugh puffing from his lips, good-looking even though he was plastered with sweat and covered in bandages, Dion noticed with resentment.

"Well, don't look too closely," Dion said dryly, pushing to his feet. "This place is held together with spit and duct tape." Unsurprisingly, there was little profit to be made from a subset of the population who struggled to hold down regular work. The morning appointments allowed them to split even, if they were lucky. 

"That's reassuring," Robuche frowned. He refused Dion’s offered hand and stood shakily on his feet, following Dion to the examining room with halting steps. It was a bit colder than the waiting room, but Robuche didn't seem to notice. Clutching the towel around his waist, he sat heavily on the examining room table and turned his face to look at Dion expectantly. 

"You don't have to keep coming here you know," Dion said dryly, rifling through the cabinets. "I can give you a referral to a bigger place in the city. It’s run by a litch. Real fastidious."

Robuche glowered. "This is more convenient, thank you."

"Yeah you say that now," Dion pulled a rectal thermometer out of a drawer, absorbing Robuche's horrified expression with a shrug. "’s the only kind we have."

"If I find out you're fucking with me ..." Robuche said darkly. At Dion’s bland smile, he glowered, then gingerly turned to bend over the examining table, the edge of his towel rising to expose the tops of his thighs, and the dark, tantalizing place between.

"If you noticed, cats and dogs usually can't hold little glass mercury tubes well under their tongues," Dion said, snapping on his gloves and spreading a thin layer of lubricant over the thermometer. 

He was a professional, Dion told himself sternly. He could be … professional about this.

Robuche hissed as Dion pushed up his towel to expose his ass, dropping his head between his stiff arms as his thighs trembled. It was excruciatingly erotic, and Dion struggled to ignore the rising interest in his pants.

"Open your legs more," Dion grimaced as he pressed the tip of the thermometer against Robuche's entrance, the sight becoming immediately, guiltily imprinted on his memory. "And try to relax … it's gonna hurt otherwise."

When Robuche shakily wedged his knees apart, Dion realized that he had been hiding a rapidly-stiffening erection, pulling the bottom of his towel hastily over his bobbing, leaking cock as the thermometer sank into his twitching hole. 

There was a moment of awkward, stiff silence, which seemed to stretch so long that Dion began to wonder if he had picked up yet _another_ broken device. When a shrill beep rang through the air, both men sighed with relief. Dion glanced at the thermometer, then bit down on a hysterical laugh. "You're not going to like this," Dion said, sliding the thermometer out with just the faintest tremble in his fingers. "You're in heat."

Robuche rapidly scrambled to a sitting position. "What? No. There has to be some mistake … what do you even mean … in heat?"

Dion rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away uncomfortably.

Werewolf communities were extremely insular, holding deathly secret their strange physical quirks. Through some personal … research, Dion knew more than most vets of his type, though it wasn't a surprise that Robuche had no idea what was coming, given his high-key hatred of other weres.

"You've started your mating cycle," Dion said, resting his hip against the wall and bending a knee to hide his inappropriate erection. He was proud of how steady his voice sounded. "I'm guessing that when you said you've been distracted lately, you actually meant _insanely aroused_. How long has it been since you've last … climaxed?"

Robuche looked shocked, then chagrined as the truth sunk in. "24… 25 days."

"Nearly a month?" Dion gaped. "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"

"That better not have been one of your puns," Robuche scowled, clutching the edges of the counter so hard that his knuckles turned white. "I … I just thought it was stress. Didn't think it had anything to do with this." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "I tried … everything. Every day."

Dion shook his head wordlessly, thinking of Robuche going to work, working out, doing his dishes - spending the entire day with a low-grade arousal, then his nights tossing and turning in a sweaty bed, fucking his cock into his hand with increasing frustration, his entire body taunt, quivering like a bowstring, before collapsing with a frustrated grunt back into bed.

A month of that. Jesus. 

"Can you fix this?" Robuche demanded, his nostrils flaring as Dion rolled up the sleeves of his lab coat, shaking out his hair before pulling it back again more tightly.

"This is more serious than you think," Dion said, his voice low. "If you don't get release soon … you'll just get worse. Never seen any were reach the end of the line on that alive."

The packs, they had their way of handling unmated heats. If Robuche had joined up with any of them, he'd get more than enough tail to break his fever. As it was, he was stuck with Dion, the two of them trapped as the winds grew wilder outside. 

It also, Dion realized with a grimace, explained the attack earlier that night. Robuche was probably emitting pheromones like a beacon. Luckily, Dion wasn't impacted by such things.

No, the throbbing arousal in his groin could only be attributed to his own degeneracy.

"I'll have to break your heat," Dion said, using the soft, low voice that he reserved for spooked animals. "This means pushing the … symptoms to their brink."

"You have to make me come," Robuche said faintly. 

_Like a good little puppy_ , Dion thought, unbidden, and sternly tried to rein himself in. Something about Robuche brought out a mild sadistic streak in him, and this was absolutely the worst time for _that_ to rear its head. Dion drew a slow breath. "I won't do anything you don't feel comfortable with, but I'll need to restrain you. There's a non-zero chance that you'll pop your claws before we pop your …"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Robuche said gruffly, offering his wrists for the nylon restraints they kept for difficult patients. 

"I could also give you a sedative," Dion said hesitantly, "if you have someone else you can call to help you. I know I'm not your ideal partner," he said self-effacingly, though it hurt, a little, now that he noticed it.

Robuche looked away quickly. "I don't ... I don't have anyone I prefer more."

Dion took that to mean that Robuche was single, though it might have been worse if he had fucked and been fucked all month, forced to end each encounter splayed across the bed, panting with frustration. 

"No muzzle?" Robuche asked, as Dion tightened the restraints around his slim wrists, maneuvering him onto his back as he clipped him into the tactically-placed rings on the underside of the table, his arms drawn tightly over his head. 

"Torn through by a drake last week," Dion said, "you'll have to promise me you won't bite … hard." When he saw the alarmed look on Robuche's face, he added hurriedly, "Don't worry, you can't turn me. The worst you could do is … well, kill me I guess."

"I'll try my best," Robuche said dryly, examining Dion with a faint curiosity. He didn’t ask, though, which Dion was thankful for. He’d maintained the facade of humanity for so long at that point that it was disconcerting to remember himself as even slightly preternatural. 

"You've done a remarkable job thus far of leaving me alive, so I'd just ask that you maintain that track record," Dion said quickly. He flicked his eyes across Robuche’s bound body, trying to keep his gaze professional. But- oh who was he kidding? "When you said that you've tried _everything_ already … what does that mean?"

“Mastrubation,” Robuche said, looking at Dion like he was an idiot. 

“Manual stimulation?” Dion asked. “Do you use pornography? Sex toys?” 

“ _Why does this matter_?” Robuche demanded, a low burr entering his voice as he pulled against the chains on his wrists. 

_Other than fodder for some inappropriate fantasies later?_ “Fine,” Dion said lightly, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll just fiddle around down there and hope for the best.” 

“So like most of your sexual encounters then,” Robuche snarled, his body shuddering, arching off of the examining room at the first touch of Dion’s hand. 

“Would you like to take the towel off, or keep it on?” Dion asked, feeling the twitch of Robuche’s thigh under his palm. Robuche’s entire body felt like burning fever, sweat running rivulets down the line of his neck. He was clearly hurting in a bad way. 

“Take it off,” Robuche said thinly, looking at Dion with challenge as he peeled the sweat-soaked towel off of Robuche’s painfully hard cock. 

It was a delectable size, curving a touch to the left and blush-red in its arousal. Dion unconsciously slid his tongue across his bottom lip, lost in a vivid fantasy (memory?) of sinking his mouth down Robuche’s hot length, milking him until he begged for release.

 _I’m gonna get my license yanked at this rate,_ Dion thought, swiping the back of his wrist across his suddenly damp forehead. Was the radiator on too high? 

“Do … whatever you need to,” Robuche said, as if reading Dion’s thoughts. He had his face pressed into the crook of his elbow. “Just … it _hurts_.” 

Ah. Ah, fuck. 

\--

Dion’s arm ached, a testament to his professional pride. He'd brought Robuche to the brink again and again, massaging his shaft and swollen balls until he saw Robuche’s stomach tense, his thighs begin to twitch, until he was arching off the examination table, threatening to rip right out of his restraints. 

Then … nothing. He'd collapse, struggling to draw air into his lungs as he lost the thread of his pleasure.

"Please … no more," Robuche hissed as Dion reached once more for his poor, chafed cock. "I told you … I already tried all this!"

"Well," Dion said, his control well and truly spun out now. He licked his lips. "I suppose the next step is digital penetration."

"Is that the clinical term for it?" Robuche swallowed as Dion squeezed a dribble of lubricant between his spread thighs. 

If someone had told Dion a week ago that he would be fingerfucking his biggest pain in the ass patient on his examining room table and getting light-headed from arousal over it…

Well, Dion would ask them what they were doing in his daydreams, to be sure.

Robuche was tight to a single finger, and sensitive as a virgin, a low whine escaping from his mouth as Dion rubbed him in a gentle, exploratory manner.

"Have you done this before?" Dion asked. Their couplings had hardly made it past the sloppy blowjob-handjob phase before the unceremonious end. It occured to Dion, suddenly, that he could be deflowering his poor patient on an examining room table with a medical grade lube. 

It wasn’t how he wanted to do this, to be honest. But since when had things between him and Robuche ever gone to plan?

"Not … in a while," Robuche answered dutifully through his staggered breaths, as if Dion were still asking pertinent medical questions. "I don't ... like to do it alone."

Dion gave into his impulse and pressed a kiss against Robuche's knee as he entered with a second finger. If Robuche noticed, he didn't say, his toes curling against the edges of the examining room table as he sobbed.

"Harder … harder! I can take it, _please_ -"

"I don't want to hurt you," Dion said uncertainly, and Robuche snapped at him, his eyes turning red and feral. 

"I don't care!" Robuche roared, sounding on the verge of tears. "Just let me come!"

If Robuche was close to turning, then they were on the right track, Dion thought heatedly. All thoughts of professional distance were blotted from his mind as he dropped his head to suck Robuche's hot, bobbing cock into his mouth while twisting three fingers into the tight clench of his ass. Just the edge of being too much, just the edge of pain and pleasure. Robuche wailed as Dion began pumping in earnest, wishing that it was his cock forcing out those sweet sounds. Though Dion had a vast library of experience in fellatio, it was all he could do to keep his teeth out of the way as Robuche pumped his hips as vigorously as the restraints would allow, hips canting back against the press of Dion’s fingers and forward, sharply, into the heat of his drooling mouth.

Suddenly, Dion could feel it, Robuche turning under his hands. He pulled back to watch with fascination as bones twisted and re-knit, fur appearing in patches across Robuche's body, his long canines making his mouth gape, drooling. 

"Don't .. don't look at me," Robuche gasped, turning his face to the side, his eyes squeezing shut. 

_You're beautiful_ , Dion thought, asking instead, "Does it hurt?" 

"At … first," Robuche gasped, his entire body shuddering as his transformation finished. In his were form, Robuche's head resembled that of a wolf while the the rest of his body stayed more or less human, his muscles thickening and his hands twisting into large, sharp claws. Sleek silver-grey fur covered his shoulders and arms, thinning at his chest through his groin, and starting again mid-thigh.

Still criminally attractive, Dion thought, feeling his heart trip as Robuche fixed him with his icy blue gaze.

"You want me to lick you?" Robuche asked, a low growl rumbling through this chest, and Dion's brain threatened to melt from his ear. 

The next thing Dion knew, he was standing at the edge of the examination table, shuddering with fear and arousal as he fed his cock into the mouth of a predator.

"Just … uh, don't bite," Dion said, and Robuche smiled wolfishly.

"But what big teeth I have," he said hoarsely.

Dion shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut at the scrape of Robuche's teeth, the wet writhing of his large tongue. With embarrassing speed, Dion found himself nearing the brink with, even though Robuche's mouth couldn't provide the suction he needed to finish, and only served as a massive, messy tease. At least Robuche looked like he was enjoying it, pressing his nose into Dion's tangle of pubic hair, strands of drool slipping out of his panting mouth. 

"Tell me what you want," Dion grunted, and Robuche's eyes flicked up at him. 

"Fuck me," Robuche slurred, his hands twisting in their restraints. 

"Ah," Dion smiled, breathing harshly. "I hoped you wouldn't say that."

\--

They moved to his office, and the cot, because Dion claimed that the angle was too difficult on the examination table, but really, it just felt too strange fucking the object of his long annoyance/desire for the first time in the same room where he regularly separated dogs from their testicles.

"You sure about this?" Robuche rumbled as Dion unclipped his restraints. 

"You want my opinion as a medical professional or as the guy who could pound nails-"

Robuche swore, grabbing Dion's jacket and shoving him before him into the hallway, seemingly nonplussed by his nude, erect state as he hounded Dion down the flickering, fluorescent hallway.

The second they were in the room, Dion pushed Robuche face-first against the closed door, pinning him there with his body as he whispered in his ear. “The only way this is going to work is if you let me take the lead on this one, okay?"

Robuche bristled, and might have thrown Dion off if he had not gripped Robuche’s jaw with a firm grip and leaned down to bite his nape. 

The show of dominance worked, as Robuche's body stuttered, then melted under Dion's, his legs spreading submissively as he panted. An unprompted thrill rushed through Dion’s body. This apex predator, this dangerous creature trembling under his hands. 

"You'd better not … tell anybody about this," Robuche's claws sank into the wooden door as Dion tore open his pants, still almost completely dressed, though his lab coat was much worse for wear at this point.

"Doctor-patient confidentiality," Dion assured him, pulling aside Robuche's thick tail and lining the head of his cock against Robuche's entrance. The mess of lubrication made it an easy slide, though Dion had to bite Robuche twice more so that he would relax enough to be entered.

Robuche dropped his head between his raised arms, still and shivering as Dion bottomed out. He was hot, tight, and Dion could feel the tremble of Robuche’s thighs through the thick material of his jeans.

"Are you okay?" Dion asked, cupping Robuche’s jaw and bringing his face to the side. He saw a flash of something vulnerable in Robuche’s expression before he snapped his face away, pressing his forehead against the clawed wood of the door. 

“Just fuck me,” Robuche growled.

Dion complied.

\--

When the doorframe began shaking and threatened to do real damage to the foundations of the clinic, they fumbled their way to the cot, a trail of Dion’s clothing marking their haphazard path. Robuche still hadn’t come yet, but he was getting close, tearing Dion’s pillow in with his teeth as he arched his back eagerly to take Dion’s cock. 

"You can bite me," Dion panted, sliding his forearm under Robuche's slavering mouth. "Just leave my poor pillow alone."

"Are … are you sure-"

"You can't turn me," Dion repeated patiently. "Not like this, anyway. Believe me, others have tried." 

"It's rude to brag about your other conquests in bed," Robuche, sullen, and Dion shuddered as he felt teeth against his skin. Robuche's jaws, that Dion had witnessed snap a man's arm right off, were closing gingerly around Dion's forearm, as gently as a mother with her pup. Dion felt his heart pound with adrenaline, moaning as felt Robuche's teeth sink deep into his flesh, the sudden, sharp pain sending a shudder through his body. 

It seemed to satisfy Robuche on a primal level, holding Dion's arm in his mouth as he was fucked into the mattress, occasionally running his tongue over the bite in apology.

How would he explain this tomorrow, Dion thought hysterically, a dog? An aggressive, wounded dog? 

"Am I your first since you've turned?" Dion asked, feeling Robuche flinch under him. "It's been ... _months_!"

What he wanted to ask, but didn’t, was whether Robuche had fucked anyone after him. 

"Believe it ... or not," Robuche forced out between shallow breaths, "some of us can go entire weeks without … getting our dicks wet."

Dion laughed low in his throat, snapping his hips forward and hearing Robuche gasp with surprised pleasure. The expanse of Robuche's back rippled under his fur, and Dion had a brief thought of how good he'd look in a collar, arching as Dion yanked back on his lead. 

"You're getting … harder?" Robuche moaned, canting his hips back greedily, bracing his legs wide as Dion began fucking him in earnest, the slap of their bodies threatening to collapse the small, squeaky cot.

He was close, Dion could feel it, from the twitching in Robuche's thighs to the keen in his howl. When Dion pulled out, Robuche whirled around with homicidal intent.

"Don't whine," Dion flicked Robuche's snout and nearly had his fingers snapped off. Undeterred, he rolled Robuche onto his back and crawled between his spread legs, pulling his shirt off of his head. At last, they were matched in states of undress and disarray, both bruised and bitten, sweat cooling in the poorly-heated room. 

"Your hair," Robuche murmured, then turned his head with a low growl. 

"Hm?" 

“I like it down,” Robuche said in a harsh whisper, like he was confessing to murder.

“Customer service is our specialty,” Dion said, aiming for playful but not quite able to keep the tremble from his voice. He reached back and tugged out his elastic, his dark, messy curls falling above his shoulder. 

The look on Robuche’s face made Dion ache to kiss him. 

Instead, he hauled Robuche’s knees up to his chest and entered him again, fucking him in a punishing rhythm that made Robuche’s body spasm, his breath struggle to leave his lungs.

"It's …" Robuche gasped, and Dion could feel the rigid tremble in his thighs, his heels digging bruises into Dion's lower back. His ass clenched down around Dion's cock as he arched, crying like his orgasm was being torn from him. 

Dion held Robuche tightly as he came, shaking violently as he gasped Dion's name, his cock spurting, at last, hot and thick between their hard bodies. Dion followed soon after when Robuche sank his teeth in the meat of Dion's shoulder, groaning loudly. 

"Fuck," Dion panted in the aftermath, too tired to move as Robuche shifted back under him, a strange sensation as the man in his arms grew suddenly smaller and much less hairy. Dion pushed himself up to find Robuche staring up at him with an inscrutable expression. 

In for a penny …

Dion lowered his head for a kiss, sliding his mouth against Robuche's. Somehow, with everything they had done that night, it was a chaste thing, an almost tender thing. Robuche groaned, relaxing in increments as he answered Dion's tongue. What started as a curious exploration soon became heated.

 _What the fuck are we doing?_ Dion thought, forcing himself to peel away, staring down at Robuche's flushed face.

"What?" Robuche snapped, "you started it!"

Stiffly, Dion moved to climb off the bed, only to have Robuche’s hand shoot out and grab his arm. 

“We can talk about this later,” Robuche yawned. “Your patient requires monitoring tonight.” 

_Is this really a good idea?_ Dion wondered, but there was no second cot, and the wind outside seemed to have no plans of slowing down. The cot was far too small for two grown men to sleep comfortably, but somehow they managed, cuddling up like puppies for warmth as Robuche's temperature fell to normal. Sometime in the night, Dion’s arms wrapped around Robuche’s waist and their legs tangled in an intimate fashion that neither could be forced to admit was _cuddling_. 

\--

Dion woke to the sound of his phone blaring in his ear, some teenybopper song that Wendy had programmed into his alarm to annoy him. Grimacing, Dion turned towards the wall, hunching his shoulders and desperately trying to claw himself back to his sleep, for just a few more hours.

“You gonna answer that?” a dry voice asked. 

Dion’s eyes snapped open and he turned to see Robuche already out of bed, his body gleaming pale under the mid-afternoon sun. A quick glance outside the office window showed that they were yet cloistered in their private snowy den, but it would only be a matter of time until the tow trucks arrived to open up the clinic. 

A return to normality. Dion felt heavy about it, somehow, flinching when his loud phone hit his chest, flung by Robuche. He had retrieved his damp clothes from the waiting room and was draping them over the radiator, making it sputter like an elderly smoker. 

Dion silenced his alarm and pulled on his briefs and shirt before walking to his desk barefoot, thanking god for the one carpeted area in the entire clinic. 

"Here," Dion bent over his desk to scrawl a number on a piece of cat-shaped post-it note. "The MacKenny pack down 196. They're jockish, but a lot better than the assholes around town."

He knew that Duncan, the young head of the pack, would take one look at Robuche and fall head over heels. Like Dion had, he thought with chagrin, the first time he'd seen Robuche across the room, looking way too good for their shitty little local dive bar. Then Dion had gotten a taste of Robuche's sharp tongue and … well, that was just the nail in the coffin. 

Was it too sad to admit to himself that the distaste he felt in Robuche’s presence had been a defense mechanism all along? Perhaps, but Dion had the day off and thus plenty of time to ease the complexity of his emotional repression with alcohol. 

"They can help you through your future heats," Dion said gruffly, "I'd suggest you call them sooner rather than later, to give your cycle time to sync up before-"

"I'm not interested in joining any pack," Robuche said, cutting through Dion's rambling. 

"Are you still being stubborn?" Dion demanded, "did _almost dying_ not impress upon you just how seriously you should be taking this?"

Robuche smiled thinly, "I think we took care of it here just fine. If you're not interested, I can just find someone else."

"I … interested?" Dion asked, now honestly baffled as Robuche belted his pants and began pulling on his shirt, frowning at the wrinkles "You want to do this again? With me?"

"You seem to be the best of many bad options," Robuche said stiffly buttoning his sleeves with crisp movements. "But if you’re otherwise occupied-"

Dion shook his head sharply. “You can’t _do_ this, you don’t have the right to act like the victim, when _I_ was the one-” he scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“You know … everything got complicated after I was bitten,” Robuche said quietly. “I wasn’t going to … ask anything of you. I couldn’t.” 

“Yeah,” Dion said, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at his feet, feeling the sudden anger drain from him as quickly as it had swelled, leaving him feeling a little hollow inside. It was as much of an apology as he was going to get, he guessed. 

“But I’m asking now,” Robuche said, and Dion’s head snapped up, “even though I don’t have any right to.” The expression on Robuche’s face exposed a rare crack in his usual cold mask. He looked pained. Vulnerable. 

Dion swallowed, then smiled. "Well … if you put it that way. But you realize that this falls outside the purview of the services provided by this clinic."

"What do you mean? I shouldn't make an appointment next time?" Robuche raised an eyebrow.

"Usually, we call those dates," Dion said dryly. "You know, the kind with drinks, dinner … movies if we're feeling frisky."

Robuche was silent, and Dion had a brief worry that his joking had pushed him too far. The last thing he wanted, he realized, was to chase Robuche into the arms of another man. 

"Fine," Robuche said finally, a rare undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice. "Dinner. Next Thursday."

"Now phrase that in the form of a question …?" Dion teased, laughing and pulling Robuche's stiff body into his arms when his face turned red. Dion's frame was just large enough to pin him, encompass him completely in a hug. Instead of resisting, Robuche went limp, pressing his nose against Dion's shoulder. Thunder shirt, Dion thought delightedly. "I guess I should call you Augustine now," Dion whispered in the shell of his ear, "or Auggie?"

"Don't press your luck," Augustine snapped, but there was little bark to his bite as his fingers twisted in the wool of Dion's sweater.


End file.
